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A Sari State of Affairs

by Rebecca Bailey

The sari is as much a symbol of India as are its temples, its massive population and the Taj Mahal, but is wearing them really as simple and relaxed as it looks? Rebecca Bailey found the answer to be a resounding “no”.

When I first came to India, I was full of enthusiasm. The smells, sights and sounds overwhelmed me, and everything, absolutely everything, was incredible. The stench of sewage – alive, authentic. The mud huts proliferating along the roads like pustules on a teenage face – natural, picturesque. The deafening horns battering down our eardrums ceaselessly was life at its peak, exhilarating, proof of the vitality of the country.

It was in this mood that I bought my first sari. Excitedly I pictured myself sashaying down the street, swirling myself around to dress every morning. I would start with one sari until I got used to it, I reasoned, but after that a world of colour and whispering material beckoned. I would blend into the rainbow that was Indian town life like a wine gum dropped back into the packet.

Choosing one in itself was an adventure, a step back into a milliner’s in Victorian England. From shelves stacked with slabs of colour, vermillion, scarlet, emerald, royal purple, a little old man pulled neat blocks of material out, opened them out for me, discarded them when I shook my head. The counter soon filled with disemboweled rectangles of cotton, and my guilt at the havoc I was causing. Although I kept telling the man (a Gringotts goblin if there ever was one) that I only wanted blues or greens, he kept presenting me with fuschia, orange or hot pink, whichever he happened to lay his hands on at the time. Finally I chose a colour, which they called ‘double colour’ and which I would have described as sea-green. The stress of choosing was over. I would be bedecked in cloth, a subcontinental mermaid, by the next day.

Not so fast. What I hadn’t been told was that I needed material for the blouse as well, which had to be made. So I went to another counter, where the material I had chosen for the sari (625 rupees) was matched up against various others. Strangely, the woman running the colour coordination counter appeared to have absolutely no sense of colour coordination herself at all. 90 rupees later I was on the way out of the shop, a little less certain that I would be in my sari by tomorrow. Instead of a ready to wear dress I had two long pieces of material which I wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

Of course, being me I forgot to take the material for the blouse to the dressmakers for a few days. Then I forgot to pick it up. When I finally did remember, someone informed me that I would need a petticoat as well. By this time my romanticism had worn well and truly off. I had seen the flies crawling over the opal opaqueness of the blinds’ dead eyes; seen the human excrement lying all over the floor from lack of toilets. The bureaucracy irritated me beyond belief, and the drawn-out process of buying something even more so. The petticoat was sidelined for a few more days.

When it finally came to the big day, several problems presented themselves. Firstly, I had to find someone to help me wear it. Secondly, I was informed that my blouse was actually not tight enough. This did not surprise me, as the ‘measurements’ had consisted of trying on three model blouses, specifying which one fitted best, and reiterating several times that no, I did not want pointy breastpieces on it. Unable to bear the prospect of going back to the dressmakers, we resorted to safety pins.

Then came the auspicious ‘putting on’. First the end was tucked into my petticoat, and wrapped around once. Then the other end was pleated. The rest of the material was put loosely around me, I was turned here and there, other things became pleated and pinned, tucked and folded - I tried to keep track of what was going on, but after the first few steps everything became slightly confusing. The woman who helped me was so quick and skilful – she told me she wore saris all the time. ‘Do you do it on your own?’ I asked timidly, helplessly immobilized as she continued wrapping me like a present. She laughed. ‘Oh no, all Indian women do it by themselves,” she said. Leaving me feeling slightly sheepish.

When she had finished though, some of my romanticism from the first few days came creeping back. The sari was surprisingly light and surprisingly comfortable, considering what a pain it had seemed to me to put on. I twirled, the material swirled. The end hung over my back elegantly. The only problem I had was going upstairs. I fell flat on my face more than once. So much for exuding elegance.

Unfortunately, as for blending in, I felt more conspicuous in the sari than out of it. People seemed to find the sight of me quite amusing (not that I could blame them – I did keep getting the end of the sari stuck in things, or leaving it hanging out of the rickshaw, which aside from looking stupid is also pretty dangerous.)

I did manage to take it off by myself, an achievement of which I was more proud than I should have been. Unfortunately, the next time I tried to put it on myself, I got stuck at the turning here and there bit. I have downloaded a step by step guide from the internet, but so far haven’t found the time to print it out. Also, when it comes down to it, trousers and a top are so much simpler to pull on in the mornings. I am truly filled with awe for the women of India, who manage so effortlessly to wear a contraption which has more need of an instruction manual than a DVD player.

I have worn my sari once. I hope one day I will return to India a little more patient, learn how to wear one properly, and one day even fulfil my dreams of a whole rainbow coloured array of saris.

Until then though, I have a bad feeling that my beautiful sari will end up in a student bedsit in the UK, as a very beautiful pair of curtains.